


Only The Chemist Can Disclose

by murderousfiligree



Category: Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:45:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderousfiligree/pseuds/murderousfiligree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alan Campbell's lamentable romance with Dorian Gray and the tragedies that ensued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only The Chemist Can Disclose

Ashes denote that fire was;

Respect the grayest pile

For the departed creature's sake

That hovered there awhile.

Fire exists the first in light

And then consolidates,—

Only the chemist can disclose

Into what carbonates.

—Emily Dickinson

* * *

Over the murmur of conversation, Dorian Gray heard the piano awaken. It was a quiet sound, like the gentle yawn of a sleeping child; in the spaces between words, the instrument blossomed as a diurnal flower, enriching the lavish atmosphere of his home, breathing new life into the party.

And as flowers turn to face the sun, Dorian turned towards the sound, to let its warmth seep through his bones, to see whose fingers impelled the keys to sing so heavenly a tune. Through the throng of guests he could hardly see the piano, but its voice was louder now, flitting through the room as a songbird in spring.

"Ah, Alan," he heard Lady Ruxton say, "do play something else. You know I love to hear you play, but nocturnes are ever-so melancholy."

Dorian did not hear the reply, but the music persisted—and he pushed through the crowd in pursuit of it, muttering apologies to those who entreated his attention.

"My dear Lady, I fear you are quite ill," said Dorian, reaching the piano at last.

"Why, Mr. Gray!" she cried, "It is delightful to see you. I am not ill, I'm afraid—whatever makes you think so?"

"To think this music is anything but beautiful, I assumed you must be ill." He turned to the pianist. "You are truly exquisite."

A faint blush colored his cheeks. "Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Gray. I am an amateur at best, I assure you." His lengthy fingers caressed the keys as he spoke, the music serving as his second voice.

"Alan, you are too humble," Lady Ruxton exclaimed. "It is a small wonder you two have not met before; I kept insisting Alan attend one of your parties!"

"Actually, I believe we have met before—haven't we, Mr…?"

"Campbell."

Dorian smiled, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. "I remember you, Mr. Campbell. Were you not at Lady Berkshire's last week?"

Alan's fingers faltered for a second, but he so quickly recovered it was hardly discernable. "Indeed, Mr. Gray. Anton Rubinstein was playing—you had the most fascinating insights regarding the nature of music."

"Yes, I recall quite vividly, that night," Dorian said, smiling softly. "I intended to find you afterwards—but you do not frequent the club, do you?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Gray. I am so caught up in my work these days, I have neglected social outings."

"That won't do at all," Dorian murmured. "You must absolutely attend the Opera with me sometime. Such a brilliant man as yourself should not hide from the world—is that Chopin, you are playing?"

"Oh—yes," he stammered. "I adore his nocturnes. Lady Ruxton, among others, finds them melancholy, but…" the music intensified, and he paused; he was acutely aware of Dorian's hand on his shoulder, of the near-silence that persisted in the wake of the song's crescendo. "I find it beautiful," he whispered, glancing furtively in Dorian's direction.

"Oh, I absolutely agree, Mr. Campbell."

"Call me Alan, please. I have long looked forward to befriending you, and I feel myself already enthralled; I shouldn't stunt the growth of our friendship with unnecessary formalities."

"Very well, if you will grant me the same liberty—call me Dorian, if it suits you."

Alan swallowed hard, conscious of the blush creeping up his neck. Dorian's eyes beguiled him as the sea beguiles the shore—that deepest blue lapping at his consciousness, eroding his self-restraint. How scarlet his lips were! How smooth the ivory skin, how rich the golden hair! Had his hands not been preoccupied with the piano, he might have reached out to touch him. "It would be my pleasure, Dorian," he said at last. "At the next opportunity, I shall accompany you to the Opera."

"Of course, Alan. I do look forward to it. Perhaps—and I know this is rather short notice—to-morrow, we could go?"

"Absolutely," Alan said, not pausing to consider the offer.

Dorian's hand withdrew, fingertips grazing his neck as it did so. Alan repressed a shiver.

"Wonderful. I'm afraid I have other guests to entertain—but you do fascinate me so! I look forward to your company to-morrow. Farewell."

Alan watched him go, remorsefully. He redoubled his efforts in playing the nocturne, as if the music might again lure Dorian to his side.

"How melancholy, Alan!" Lady Ruxton chided.

Music fell from his fingertips as leaves to a forest floor; sadness guided his fingers till the final notes, soft and delicate, drifted away into the air.

Alan sighed. "Who is to say, dear Lady, that melancholy can't be beautiful?"

"I never said it wasn't beautiful, Alan," she replied. "It is merely unfitting to be sad at so festive a party. Come away from the piano—have a drink. Be merry."

He reluctantly rose, and followed her. His thoughts were only with Dorian Gray—the man had effectively consumed him.


End file.
